


A Trip Down Memory Lane

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Gregory Lestrade Has Died, After John Watson Has Died, After Sherlock Holmes Has Died, Elderly Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Mycroft Outlives Everyone, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 16:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: At 93 years old, Mycroft's body may be failing, but his memory keeps him going.





	A Trip Down Memory Lane

Mycroft woke to faint light streaming through the window.  With great effort, he shifted to sit up, and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed.  He was considering getting to his feet when the young man walked in.

“Just where do you think you’re going?  Let me help you,” Nicholas said, rushing to set down the breakfast tray and help his aged uncle to his feet.  “You need the loo, I take it?  You could have called, you know.”  The young man steadied and supported the nonagenarian as he shuffled carefully across the room.

“I can manage, thank you,” Mycroft huffed.  He could have, in reality – there was a cane by the bed, and it’s not a long walk.  Once in the en suite, he waved his grandnephew away.  "I am fine... I’m not a complete invalid,” he grumbled.  Nicholas chuckled.  “Sure thing, Uncle Myke.  I’ll be just down the hall – let me know if you need anything.”

After using the loo and washing up, Mycroft re-entered the bedroom to see that Nicholas had set out clothing for him – boxers, track pants, a dark t-shirt, and a light cardigan in case he got a chill.  The same thing he wore every day now.

He walked past the clothing on the bed to the wardrobe, opening it for the first time in ages.  There hung what Gregory always called his ‘battle armour’: tailored suits, shirts with French cuffs, ties, pocket squares. 

Gregory.  It seemed like only yesterday.  They became friends so many years ago – was it nearly 60? – and that friendship had become so much more.  One evening just after Gregory retired from New Scotland Yard, Mycroft came home to find his lover down on one knee, ring in hand.  The wedding was the following spring, and shortly after, Mycroft retired as well.  They spent a number of years travelling, enjoying the world while their health allowed.  In Gregory’s late 70’s, staying near to London became the wiser choice, but they still enjoyed their lives – pints and fine wines, opera and football matches.  Mycroft shuddered as he fingered the jacket he had worn the last time they had dinner at Le Gavroche – for their 25th anniversary, as Mycroft recalled.  It was the last one.  A tear fell at the memory.

None of suits would fit him properly anymore, of course – he’d lost significant body mass since his retirement nearly 40 years ago – but he chose one anyway, carrying it slowly back to the bed and laying it out.  He shrugged out of his dressing gown and pyjamas and slowly pulled on the layers of his past. 

He blew a fine layer of dust off the box atop the bureau and took out his ebony cufflinks (a retirement gift from Sherlock and John) and carefully put them on – his arthritic hands made that more of a challenge than he remembered.  He picked up his pocket watch (which he had inherited from his father decades ago) and tucked it into place in his waistcoat pocket, the chain hooked to the center button hole. 

Turning toward the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door, he surveyed his work, and frowned.  The suit was ill-fitted now, as he expected, but he smoothed it into place as best he could.  His formerly dark hair had turned almost completely white, with just a touch of cinnamon. 

He wondered idly if his brother’s hair would have done the same, if he had reached Mycroft’s age.  For as much as Sherlock worried him, he found that he had missed their exchanges in the more than 20 years since his death.  Mycroft sighed.  His brother was lucky to have found John  It was probably only due to John’s influence that Sherlock lived as long as he had – his years of drug abuse had taken their toll on his heart, and it gave out at the young age of 64.  Even with John's insistence that medically, there was no such thing as a 'broken heart', Mycroft was certain that was what Dr. Watson succumbed to a few years later.

“Nicholas!” he called out.  “I should like to have breakfast in the garden today.”  Nicholas entered the room to retrieve the tray he’d brought in earlier and paused at the sight of Mycroft in his full suit.  “All dressed up today?  Is it a special occasion?” he asked curiously. 

“No.  Just a little walk down memory lane.” came the quiet reply.  With a nod, Nicholas headed out the French doors to the patio.  Mycroft turned toward the doors as well, spying his old companion on the coat rack nearby – his umbrella.  It had long since been disarmed (ever since the Sherrinford incident), but it was still comforting.  Using the umbrella to steady his gait, he walked outside into the spring air.


End file.
